


Stars Burn Softly

by heavnofhell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavnofhell/pseuds/heavnofhell
Summary: The past is inescapable, and finds its way into the present in the most unexpected ways.





	Stars Burn Softly

Lucifer loves showers. He loves the heat they provide - something he’d always sought in the ones he loved to balance him out and calm him. He loves the monotonous sound of the pulsing water, and the feeling of the gentle droplets rolling down the flesh of his perpetually cool vessel. What he loves most, of course, is sharing the moment with his **other half**  - finding peace in the little, (ironically) human-made sanctuary, cleansing Sam and being cleansed in return, or simply leaning against him, eyes closed and head resting heavily upon the man’s strong shoulder.

But when they’ve spent the warm water and their skin has turned pruney and rosy red, and Sam turns off the faucet and pulls Lucifer from the slick tiles and into a warm, soft towel, there is something else the Archangel looks forward to.

Sam uses a hairdryer - and though Dean relentlessly teases him for it, Lucifer took great amusement in the strange object. “Tiny waterfalls and electric wind-guns… I’ve gotta say, humanity certainly has their priorities in line.” (Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head and chuckles quietly, but now the thought floats into his mind every time he pulls the little dryer out of the cupboard)

What Lucifer finds most intriguing about the hairdryer, is the way it leaves Sam’s hair: soft and fluffy and a bit curly with little flyaways sticking up in random places. He runs his hand through it, almost experimentally at first, but Sam’s body relaxes so readily beneath his touch, and the feeling of that soft, thick hair brings Lucifer a bittersweet sense of calm and nostalgia, so he continues to do it until it becomes as habitual as the showers, themselves.

One day, when Sam’s head is in his lap and his eyes are closed and he’s possibly asleep, or at least  _very_ close, Lucifer whispers quietly, the words hardly audible as they fall through the air between them. The words are ancient and distant, and, _very slowly_ , Sam’s hazel eyes slide open, watching the almost sad look on the Archangel’s face for a long moment before he reaches up, gently brushing his fingertips across his cheek and pulling his eyes into focus.

“Hm?” Lucifer blinks slowly, pressing his lips together and furrowing his brows as he looks to Sam questioningly. 

“Talk to me.” Sam’s words are quiet, but earnest, something he says often when Lucifer is retreating to a place he cannot follow. The Archangel watches him, lips parting and eyes turning sorrowful again as he stares at Sam in subdued awe and gratitude, nodding carefully before answering. 

“ _Peaceful wings_ …” He shakes his head, a frown settling onto his pale features and reflecting the dissatisfaction he feels for the odd way the words sound in this tongue. “Your hair is soft - like the feathers of my brethren when times are peaceful.” He tilts his head, eyes going back to the thick locks of hair upon Sam’s head, fingers carding through it tenderly and lovingly. 

“When Creation was young, and things were calm, there was no need for armor so strong. We could be  _soft_ …” He swallowed down hard, his gaze falling away again, thoughts of Michael’s powerful and dangerous hands running through the younger’s velvety wings with all the mildness and affection of a mother with her infant, the elder admiring the shifting hue’s in the  **Morning Star’s** unique and brilliant feathers. 

“Luce?” Sam’s voice is hardly even a whisper, and he’s watching the Archangel as though he might fall apart at any moment, and the hunter will need to be ready to catch the pieces before they crash to the ground and shatter irreparably. 

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Lucifer’s movements have stopped, his fingers curling loosely into the human’s soft tufts of hair as turns his head away, eyes closed and emotions hidden. “My wings…” He clenches his jaw, giving another little shake of his head before drawing in a long, deep breath, exhaling steadily as he bids the thoughts to leave his crowded and ancient mind. 

Sam sits up slowly, turning to face the Archangel on the bed, watching him silently for a long moment. Maybe it’s a part of being his  **other half** , maybe he just knows him that well now, but Sam understands what Lucifer is mourning without needing to hear even one more word from the  **Morning Star’s**  flawless lips.

The cage had not been peaceful - it had been as far from it as possible, and there was no room for softness. Lucifer’s wings were his armor, and they had changed to protect him - no longer soft, but sharp and strong and unrelenting. Sam couldn’t know for certain how they felt and looked now, after so many eons of agony and suffering and danger, but if Lucifer’s pained eyes were anything to go on, they had not yet returned to the glory of the  **Light Bringer.**

Slowly, Sam leans closer, pressing his lips against Lucifer’s temple with the lightest of touches, lingering a moment as he breathes in the sweet scent of this glorious and broken creature. He places one hand atop the Archangel’s shoulder blade, Lucifer’s body reacting immediately as he sits up a little straighter. But Sam’s movements are slow and steady, fingers trailing up the bare skin, tracing a swooping line to the center of his back, and then up his spine, his fingertips brushing just barely against the hair on the nape of his neck.

At this point, Sam’s lips fall from the cool skin of the Archangel, and he leans his forehead gently against the vacated spot of flesh, his breath falling softly against Lucifer’s cheek. He twirls the fine hair between his fingertips a moment longer, before pushing his fingers up into the unruly tufts of blond, tenderly massaging the scalp, the roots not yet dry from their previous shower.

“You are strong, Lucifer, and you  _have_ been hardened, only because you had to be.” Sam shifts his forehead down slightly, nuzzling against the Archangel, his voice low and hushed and desperately sincere. “But that’s not all you are. You are soft and gentle and  _good_.” He continues to run his fingers through Lucifer’s drying hair, pressing another fleeting kiss to his cheek when he hears the small hitch in the Archangel’s breathing.

“The cage didn’t take that from you.” He closes his eyes, his next words almost inaudible, just a breath passing between them. “You aren’t a monster.” Because he knows - he  _knows_ what this is about. That painful metamorphosis Lucifer feels in his very core - the scathing words and screaming taunts that tell him he is no longer  **Heaven’s Brightest Son** \- that he is no longer deserving of peace - that monsters do not get to be soft and pure. 

“ _Sam_.” Lucifer whispers his quiet prayer, as he has so many countless times in his long and painful history, and he turns his body just enough to look his  **other half** in his warm hazel eyes, icy blues filled with nothing but love and reverence. He doesn’t say anything else - he doesn’t need to - Sam smiles and shakes his head and pulls him closer, cradling his head against his chest as he resumes his slow caresses, fingers threading through the soft hair like this is his religion. 

Things are slightly different when they step out of the shower now, steam rolling from their flushed skin and droplets of water falling to the floor. Sam still wraps Lucifer in the largest, fluffiest towel he can find, and he still throws a smaller towel over the blond’s head and massages away the excess water. He dries his hair as the Archangel watches from his perch on the bathroom counter, and then he turns and does the same for Lucifer.

He sets aside the dryer and he runs his fingers through the fluffed hair, fluffing it more, if that’s possible, laughing with an innocent and pure joy when Lucifer turns to look in the mirror and huffs in indignation, only to be pulled into a warm embrace, smiling lips pressed against his temple until the Archangel’s grin matches that of the man who holds him.

And when Lucifer gets that  _look_ in his eyes - whenever or wherever it may be - Sam’s fingers find their place in the spiky blond tufts, and he reminds him, wordlessly and effectively, that he is good, he is safe, and he is loved.


End file.
